ascend like prophet (praise be

upon him) through hole in clouds

through ontological space

financial security

net precarious at best,

but we treat this place like home

apocalyptic storm clouds

rolling in on history's

slow-to-unfold horizon

Master of Puppets too long

for side A 90-minute

Certron, cuts off “Orion”

Sir Chillington Loungewirth, he

of the Isle of No Fucks

fame, sits upon his throne

dull dystopian landscape

of gridlock and self-contained

lives rarely escaping walls

perfect symmetry of crow

activated into launch

mode, ascending  towards clouds

sunlight refraction starburst

creates universal shine

from junk pick-up’s cracked windshield

hexagonal honeybee

supreme mathematics applied

to storehouse stolen nectar

feeling supremely lonely

in crowds of humans; need more

trees, crows, mushrooms, mud, dirt, god

spices and dirt make colors

for cinderblock canvas piece -

eldest daughter expressions

our brains storm in unison

during weekly meetings where

we pretend to co-exist

fight-or-flight anxieties

mass triggered for amusement;

we need to feel survival

civilized infrastructure

of extension cord connect

manifesting “power” grid

written infinite scribbles

from internal source code of

universal magnetics

contemplating existence

from confining cubicle,

chasing fool’s golden carrots

beautify our broken lives

through illegitimate arts -

no father to our wild style

calculating retirement

utilizing three decades

of more zeroes than commas

prophecies written by worms,

mystical quatrains about

needed metamorphosis

complex human chemistry

becomes unbalanced, on edge;

I sit here thinking “nothing”

blue tarps cover half our shit -

riding mowers and wood piles

and nice stuff too big for sheds

packing up the ferris wheel

on Sunday morning, still drunk,

four hour drive to Roxboro

mossy thrones overlooking

feral dynasties exist

beyond all those barbed fences

chance overspray blossoms of

freshest faux spring hopefulness;

I promise the weeds less cuts